Subway Surreal
F-train. Friday Afternoon.
Ninety-two degrees outside.
Cool air from the vent blows down on me, standing in the car, in front of the doors. My lids are heavy. It’s not crowded but I stand.
A book, The Wisdom of No Escape, by Pema Chodron, lies open in my palm. She’s a Buddhist monk who lives in an abbey on
A gust of wind enters through the door and swirls into a circle. I don’t know where it comes from — we’re underground. A large sheet of multi-colored newsprint floats up, out of the reach of a man sitting next to the door. It floats up. He watches it, as if amazed that it’s left his lap.
It floats one way then the other, rising to his eye level, then settles to the Earth, landing on the floor to his left, in the open doorway, half in and half out. The man stares at the paper.
The buzzer sounds and the doors begin to close. The man hesitates, as if unsure of what has happened. Maybe he’s wondering just how important that piece of paper is. Maybe he’s just realized he hasn’t read that page yet. Then he reaches down for the piece of paper, bending over the side bar.
The doors shut, crushing the center into a butterfly, wings on either side. The man’s fingers miss the paper. The doors open three times quickly, closing after each opening. The man reaches, misses, reaches, misses, then makes contact and pulls the sheet of newsprint into the car as the doors close one final time.
I feel like I’m in a Buster Keaton silent film.
The man settles the paperback onto his lap, smoothing it out and snapping its crease back into shape as if nothing has happened.
–Joe Lunievicz